


The Benefit of Competitiveness

by IdrisSmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/pseuds/IdrisSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper loves Sherlock Holmes with all her heart, that fact was true. However, it didn’t mean she was going to lose if it was to preserve his ego. It started out simple, really, a harmless drinking game with the yard. Well, maybe she should have known better to challenge Sherlock into anything considering how competitive he had always been and how competitive she could get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Benefit of Competitiveness

**Author's Note:**

> I went from a dry spell to writing two one shots that ended up to around 7k words... Well, I hope this is not so bad.

Molly Hooper loves Sherlock Holmes with all her heart, that fact was true. However, it didn’t mean she was going to lose if it was to preserve his ego. It started out simple, really, a harmless drinking game with the yard. Well, maybe she should have known better to challenge Sherlock into anything considering how competitive he had always been and how competitive she could get. A decade – that was how long they knew each other and she should have at least known that. And having lived as long as she had and made enough bad decisions when alcohol was in play, she really should have known better.

Alas, with Sally cheering on and the bets the lads were placing that was all against her (she knew that of course) saved for maybe Greg who knew better, she just didn’t want to lose. Not to Sherlock who was wearing that stupid smug smile of his. 

Who does he think he was anyway? Right, only the man she was hopelessly in love with. Well, fuck her life. 

There was also the fact that it was the few times where she was among friends and didn’t have to work the next day that drove her to the point of which her sober self would berate her for it. She vaguely her alcohol riddled mind arguing what could possibly go wrong when participating in a drinking game in a bar where at least half of Scotland Yard was present. There should be a law against her listening to herself when inebriated. Someone should've stopped her, she should've stopped herself.

Of course, she had to pay for it the next day when she woke up with a hammering headache that would make Dionysus proud. Though, unfortunately for her, the splitting headache was only made worse when she was jolted awake by someone moving on her left side of the bed. Her first reaction was; 'what the fuck?' followed by 'what the fuck am I doing in bed with him?' and 'this is not my flat!'

“Ughh…” a groan emitted from her companion, causing her to jump, gathering the covers to her chest.

She mentally chanted; 'this is not happening, this is not happening' as she flustered about. A quick escape was what she needed before her companion was aware of her being awake and her very obvious state of undress. She really didn't want to deal with whatever it was that she did the night before. There were several incidents when she was at Uni where she would much rather not recall where she ended up in similar situation. It was a bad idea to join the drinking game and regretting it was all she could do.

“Stop moving, Molly. You’re giving me a headache,” her companion mumbled, burying his face further into his pillow. His dark hair were in complete disarray, tempting her to run through it and his shirtless back was exposed for her viewing pleasure.

Crap.

She halted her movement, cursing her lack of self-control and abandoning her attempt to flee. However, she continuously scanned the room for all her garments, catching the sight of her black and lacy bra (the reason why did she wear that the previous day escaped her) propped on the night lamp. Her matching knickers (again, she questioned herself as to why did she wore the damn set) had somehow ended up near the wall under the window and her trousers, shirt as well as jumpers were scattered about the floor.

Saying that she was thoroughly fucked (no pun intended) was an understatement as she assessed the room. Immediately, she vowed to never drink again, well, at least not excessively or at least not in the presence of the man she had lusted over for the better part of a decade. No, she wasn't really ashamed with sleeping around - she never did, but the idea of waking up in Sherlock Holmes' bed without a stitch was entirely different than having a one night stand for the hell of it. For one thing, since when did Sherlock ever did the sleeping around and having one night stands? And another was, how bloody drunk were they to have ended up in bed together? Finally, why the hell that none of the coppers stopped them?

She would have had words with at least Lestrade if it had not been for the fact she decided that there was no way anyone should ever know what happened between them.

Which led her to another question; 'what exactly did happen?'

“Y'flat was too far,” a mumbled answer to a question she didn’t ask came from her companion. “Everyone’s too hammered, want to make sure you’re alright.”

Every single sarcastic retort rushed to the frontal lobe of Molly's brain when she heard the answer, but she managed to pushed them back down. It was far too early for any confrontation and if she was honest, she would rather have done it with her clothes on. She contemplate to pull the sheet off of the bed only to be reminded that it would leave her companion extremely exposed. Too exposed.

'Is that such a bad thing?' that tiny voice in her head asked. 

It was knocked down as she quickly grabbed her belongings. It was not an argument she was willing to have with herself, especially not while hungover and definitely not in the same room where a very naked object of her affection was. Faster than the hammering in her head allowed, she pulled her clothes on, stealing occasional glance at the sleeping man in hope he wasn't taking a peak. She realized how ridiculous she was behaving considering the state she woke up in, but since she can't remember a thing, she would like to preserve whatever left of her modesty.

She was pulling her jumper over her head when she heard him speak again.

"Coffee?" he asked, sounding a little better than he looked.

"No -" she began to refuse but halted. They need to talk even if all she wanted was to sprint out of the room. "Sure."

She didn't receive a worded reply, instead he raised from the bed, letting the sheet fell away. To her relief (or maybe not) when she caught the sight of him standing up, he was wearing his trousers. He wordlessly left the room, not even beckoning for her to follow. So, she sat in the bed for a good five minutes, talking up herself before she followed him out.

"What happened last night?" she asked as he handed her a cup of coffee.

He took a sip from his own mug, neglecting to answer her first. She couldn't find it in her to fault him as she drank from her mug, waiting for him to open his mouth. At the same time, he was trying to look at anything other than him since he hadn't bother to throw his shirt on.

"Short version," he said after a couple of sips and swallowing down the dark liquid, "you managed to outdrink every single copper and Anderson and I tapped out sometime before Lestrade because there should be at least a couple of sober people in that bar."

"Oh," she mumbled. "But no, that's not what I meant. How did I ended up here?"

He quirked an eyebrow, "I told you. Your flat was too far, everyone was hammered and I didn't want to leave you taking the cab on your own."

"No, not that bit," she said, exhaling in frustration. "How did I ended up in your bed, naked?"

He didn't answer immediately, sensing that there are more questions to come and he was right.

"What exactly...uh...happened?" 

A pause as he waited, when he was sure he was not getting any more questions, he began to answer them one by one.

"I put you there. You stripped out of your clothes, I couldn't stop you and nothing happened," he explained as precisely as he would anything else.

"Nothing?" she asked again, chewing her bottom lip. Part of her was relieved, the other - not so much.

"To answer your next question which you didn't want to ask," he said, ignoring her question. "I didn't want to sleep on the couch and though I'm used to sleeping nude, I thought you'd appreciate not waking up next to a naked man after a night out."

"So, nothing happened?" she asked, repeating the same question but in a different manner.

He rolled his eyes. "No, Molly Hooper. If you meant sex - no, we did not have sex."

Her face flushed scarlet and she blurted out; "Oh, thank God!"

"Is the idea of sleeping with me appalling to you?" he asked in turn, barely masking the hurt that was in his tone.

To say that she was taken aback would be an understatement of her life. Though, she managed a respond, "no, I didn't mean that. I -" she tried to explain, but for some reason, words escaped her. "I thought you're not interested in that."

'In me,' she wanted to say, but didn't. Molly was fully aware how she was flailing and how close she was to spilling the content of her mug. Yet, she couldn't help herself. Never in her life had she thought she would have conversation about sex with Sherlock Holmes. No, definitely not. Maybe he had been interested in sex if she was to go by the article where his former girlfriend sold their story to a tabloid, but definitely not with her.

He hummed a respond, fiddling with the mug in his hand.

"I mean, I don't know if you are," Molly continuously mumbled. "It's okay if you're not and it's okay if you are."

"I know it is," he replied, a small smile threatened to emerge from the corner of his lips.

She could feel her face burned. "Right, I'm going before I die of further embarrassment," she said as she placed the mug on the nearest flat surface that happened to be the table, nearly running into a chair as she swivelled around to exit the area.

Sherlock caught her by the arm before she would. "Careful."

"Thanks," she reddened even more than possible. "My purse, where's my purse?"

"Couch," he answered.

She made a quick dash into the living area and grabbed her purse. All she wanted to do was get out of the place and perhaps avoid him for the next week or at least until her mortification faded, whichever one come first.

He with his long stride was there seconds after she retrieved it.

"Go on a date with me," he said as she turned, nearly running into him, "this Friday, somewhere nicer than Angelo's"

"Why?" she blurted. "Oh my God! What did I say or do last night?"

Sherlock chuckled at Molly's mortified expression, no doubt think of the worst. And if he knew her as well as he thought he does, she was most probably thinking she must have caused him discomfort. Fortunately, none of it was true. He had been largely amused by her. Humbled, most definitely.

"You said you love me, among other things," he told her.

The colour drained from her face. She was staring at him, gawking. It was one thing about him being aware of her affection towards him, another for her to actually say it and verify it with her own mouth.

Seeing that he needed to make himself clear, Sherlock opted not to wait for Molly to snap out of her shock and descend into full blown panic. Instead, he placed his hand over her shoulder, keeping her in place.

"I thought you stopped," he said sincerely. "You don't blush or stutter around me anymore, well, except earlier. Not for a long time and I thought you've finally gotten over me and I've missed my chance with you. I didn't think I deserve it, to ask you to reconsider having me in your life. So, I decided I was going to give you what you wanted and if it was friendship, I would've taken it. Whatever it was, Molly. I just wanted to be in your life."

"Oh," she said, no louder than a whisper, wanting to curse how she had been reduced to a monosyllabic responds.

"But, last night you told me you love me, repeatedly. And I know this Molly Hooper, you deserve better. Just, give me a chance," he said. “Have dinner with me.”

"How long?" she asked and he knew what she meant.

"Longer than people think I've been, and by people I meant Mary," he answered with a smile, "I don't know exactly when. That Christmas or when I commented about your hair, or even when I came to you. Perhaps when we were solving the Jack the Ripper case."

He was recalling moments where he wished she was his and he kept thinking to himself how it was further back, much earlier in that moment until he can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment his heart was stolen by Molly.

"Are you saying you like me, Sherlock Holmes?" Molly asked, finding her voice again. 

She had tentatively encircled her arm around Sherlock's neck, leaving it hanging comfortably. He seemed not minding it at all. In fact, if anything, he seemed to welcome it.

"No, Molly Hooper," he replied cheekily. "I'm saying I am madly in love with you."

He asked her with a look and she answered by meeting him halfway.

Her mind jumped with joy as he kissed her, slowly and sensually, letting her know without words that he meant everything he said. Well, perhaps getting drunk wasn't the worst thing that happened to her after all.


End file.
